Decisions

Decisions

It was quiet on the plane. Not many people were aboard and no children apart from Rose and Hugo. The stewardess was friendly and relaxed, the sun was already setting, and Hermione thought she would jump out and swim back to the island if nobody knocked her over the head.

Her neck hurt from not turning it, from not staring out of the window, from the strenuous task of keeping it straight instead of bending it and crying bitter, lonely tears.

Rose snuggled up to her from one side, Hugo from the other. She hugged her children, smiled, told them stories and felt her heart break with every mile the plane carried her away from him and back home to Ron.

Him. Carlos. Who wasn't just an ordinary winegrower. Whose name wasn't really Carlos.

Whom she had fallen in love with. After ten years of marriage, two children, a life, a house, a family...

They would never understand. Not Ron, who believed she didn't know about his affairs. Not her children, who loved their dad. Not her mother-in-law, who considered divorce something that happened only to other people. And not Harry, who was Ron's best friend and who had despised...

Him. The man back there on that island she had just left. The man no one would recognise, not in a million years. Whom she hadn't recognised, although she had made love to him.

Hugo was asleep, Rose's eyes were dropping closed. Therefore, Hermione finally gave in and allowed tears to run down her cheeks.

This is impossible, she thought for the umpteenth time. It cannot be him. I disliked him so much when I was at school. And he hated children. He had been ugly and greasy and pale, he had not talked but snapped and snarled, he had not walked, only stalked. He was dead. She had seen it; she had been there.

Hugo snored quietly, and she smiled, wiping the tears away. It was over. Three weeks, three wonderful, marvellous weeks filled with laughter and joy and remarkable sex. An adventure to be forgotten as soon as possible. It didn't matter who he was now or had been a decade before. All that mattered was that it was over. She would go back home, back to Ron and the ridiculously big house and Molly's nagging and...

A bolt of anger, of hate, really, shot through Hermione. Her eyes narrowed, and her hands clutched the armrests in bitter realisation. If I go back to Ron, nothing will change. She knew it. She was trapped in a life she didn't want and didn't like, and when, for fuck's sake, had she become so weak and whiny that she didn't even dare to think of changing it?

Housekeeping; washing, cooking, mending, and more washing and cooking.

She hated it. And it was simply impossible to go on like that. He hadn't recognised her! He had not seen who she was, and that was possibly the most shocking thing at all. A different haircut and colour shouldn't have changed her that much. And it wasn't because she had children, either.

It was because she wasn't herself anymore.

She had stopped being herself years ago. Slowly, surely, she had turned into someone she didn't recognise when she looked into a mirror. No wonder he hadn't, either.

Gently, carefully, Hermione stroked along Rose's back and pushed a stray lock out of Hugo's face. Both children were sleeping fast now, feet on the seats next to them, and Hermione shook her head when the stewardess offered her dinner. She loved her children so very much and would have died for them, killed for them without a second thought.

What if she went back to the island, what if she refused to pick up the threads of her real life again? Wouldn't she deprive her children of a mother who was happy? Hermione was pretty sure that if she continued with her life exactly as it had been before her holiday, she would change even more, would become depressive, unfriendly, and unfair.

Bad for her; worse for her children.

"I cannot leave Ron. Not now, whilst the children are this young," she whispered. "Molly would get them out of my reach for good, and I can't let that happen."

Her jaws were set and her eyes sparkled. "But I can change a few things."

Raising her chin, she silently charmed her ticket so that it said 'Destination: Sydney' instead of London. It wouldn't be easy, but with a bit of magic no one would become suspicious. Pity that Apparating with two small children was too dangerous. But then, her parents lived in Australia, and she hadn't seen them in years. Rose and Hugo would be delighted, Ron was in Hawaii for another month anyway, and besides...

Her mother would understand.

*************************************

"You have met someone."

It wasn't a question but a statement, and Hermione couldn't help smiling at her mother's words. Yes, she had, and no, she hadn't told her mum yet. It was just that her mum seemed to know and was tired of waiting for her daughter to spill the news.

Hermione, standing in the kitchen doing the washing up, nodded briskly. "I have. And I really don't know how you know it."

Her mother, a good-looking, slender woman in her mid fifties, picked up the next cup to dry it. "It is obvious, honey. You are glowing. You can barely keep your mouth shut. You smile all day long, and sometimes, you stare into your tea as if you're trying to read the future from the leaves. So tell me – who is it? Someone I know?"

It wasn't easy not to break things when confronted with such a direct question, Hermione had to admit and sat on the small table in the corner. Listening, she heard her children who were in the garden playing ping-pong with their grandfather. Through the window, she could even see them – they were quite busy and would leave their mother alone for a little while longer.

Hermione poured herself and her mother a cup of tea. "No, no one you know. No one anyone knows," she summarised, unwilling to tell even her mother about the true identity of the man she had fallen in love with. "A winegrower. Someone I met on holiday. And it is serious. Unfortunately."

Her mother wrapped her hands round the cup. It wasn't cold in the kitchen, but she seemed to find comfort in the warmed porcelain. Quietly, she mused, "I don't know if I should be happy for you or warn you. A holiday fling is rarely lasting. But you are so happy. I haven't seen you so content in years. Would you... do you mind telling me what you will do?"

Now that was the main question, wasn't it? Hermione had thought about that question more or less constantly since she had left him. "I can't leave Ron," she stated as calmly as possible. "In the wizarding world, it is always the family with the magical background that gets custody over the children. The Weasleys have magic in their family for centuries; I have not. Molly would fight with claws and teeth to get sole custody for Ron, and she would win. It doesn't matter that Ron is barely home and that he probably wouldn't mind me having Rose and Hugo. He does what his mum says. Therefore, my children would grow up under Molly's wings. That is impossible; I won't let it happen. I have to wait until both Hugo and Rose are at Hogwarts."

"I see," her mother said comprehendingly.

Hermione flashed her a small smile. "But that's not the point. I will change a few things in my life. I will definitely get a job, and I will send Rose to primary school and Hugo to infant school. Eventually, they will go to Hogwarts, but until then I will not allow Ron or Molly or anyone else to tell me that I shouldn't do this and must do that instead." Draining her tea, she shook her head, already knowing Molly's reaction to the idea that Hugo and Rose would be exposed to the Muggle world.

"I thought Molly and Arthur were thrilled by Muggle inventions?" Caroline Granger asked mildly.

Hermione snorted. "Arthur is. Molly is, too, as long as not too many Muggle artefacts are stored in her garden shed. But in her opinion, the children should stay at home until it is time to go to Hogwarts. She thinks I should teach them how to read and how to write, and that the rest they can and will learn at Hogwarts. She taught all her children at home and thinks this is the only way. I hereby decide to disagree, and Ron isn't home often enough to be granted an opinion."

That made her mother chuckle. "It might seem unbelievable, but I had about the same problem when you were born, dear. Eighties or not, we lived in a small village," she mused. "My neighbours were scandalised that I stayed at home for only a year, then went back working at the surgery with your dad. I can't even remember how often I heard 'Children should be with their mother, not in daycare' whispered behind my back. I think it is a good idea to send Rose and Hugo to school. They will benefit from the contact with the Muggle world."

Hermione took another sip of her tea. "And what about the fact that I cheated on Ron? Doesn't that bother you? I mean, I never even dreamed about adultery, but..."

"You can't help falling in love, dear," her mother stated matter-of-factly. "And don't you deny it. You are very much in love with this winegrower. Describe him to me, will you? I'm curious about the man who has made my daughter so happy."

Restlessly, Hermione turned the cup between her hands. That her skin was slightly tanned was strange, that her hair looked the same tangled mass than ever a relief. Carlos had liked her hair so much better the way it was, had buried his hands and his nose in it, had stroked it and played with the long strands whilst they had been lying in bed together. "Happy," she said absently. "I thought I had forgotten how 'happy' actually feels. Had someone told me ten years ago that I would dislike being with Ron one day, I would have laughed. When I went on holiday, I hoped for three nice, uneventful weeks with my children. And then I bumped into Carlos."

"Ah. Carlos." Her mother smiled. "Spanish?"

"No. English. But he has been living on the island for nearly a decade. He's a wizard. I found out only about a week ago. He's tall and slim, he's deeply tanned, has short black hair and black eyes. And he's tattooed. A sunflower on his right shoulder."

"Definitely not son-in-law-material," her mother commented dryly. "How old is he?"

"Not really my age. About... twenty years older than I. Which doesn't really matter in our world. Wizards live a lot longer than Muggles as you know."

Caroline stared at her daughter. "This man seems to be... quite a change, compared to Ron. I know you don't love your husband anymore, Hermione, but this Carlos..."

"... is different. I know that. And as I said, I won't see him again. He took us to the airport and turned away without good-bye. We had a beautiful time, but it's over. It was nothing but a holiday affair."

"Of course, dear. Which is the reason for the tears running down your cheek."

"Damn," Hermione cursed, wiping her eyes dry. "I feel like a teenager again, freshly in love with all the ups and downs. Only that I am a married woman with a possibility next to zero of ever seeing Carlos again." A glance out of the window confirmed her guess: Hugo was hungry, and Rose was pulling her grandfather back into the house. "Any ideas, Mum? I'd be grateful for some advice."

Caroline took both their cups to the sink. "Figure something out, dear," she said. "You are said to be bright. I know you are. If you want to see him again, find a way to do so without Ron and the Weasleys knowing."

******************

Molly Weasley wasn't the problem, and Ron wasn't, either. As usual, he wasn't home when Hermione arrived late at night, two weeks after she had planned to be home. Staying with her parents had proven to be a good decision; she had talked both to her mother and her father, both had embraced her and accepted her decision and encouraged her to do something to change the situation she was in.

"Talk to Ron," her father had advised, and "Do what you think is the best for you and the children," had come from her mother.

Coming home after sunset had the benefit that the house was quiet and dark. It was easier as she didn't see her home in bright daylight, didn't see everything she had bought in ten years' time. She lit one candle and told Rose and Hugo to go to bed immediately; she dumped her bags without bothering to unpack them, and when her children were fast asleep, she poured herself a glass of wine and settled on the stairs to the garden.

No ocean to listen to, no veranda, no sand, and no one sitting next to her, his fingers entwined with hers. No one she could share the silent moments before moonrise with; no one who knew what she thought even if she was quiet.

She sighed. Carlos wasn't here, which was one half of the problem. That his name wasn't Carlos the other half.

That she missed him so much shocked her. "Severus," she whispered into the darkness, and it sounded so wrong. "Carlos." Much better. "I wish you were here. I don't know how this could have happened..."

That was the question, wasn't it? How it had happened. How it had been possible to fall in love with someone she had believed dead, with someone who had terrified her when she was a child. To fall in love with him.

How she would manage to get over him was the next question. "I don't want to get over you," she stated to the night, the stars, and believed for a short, ridiculously romantic moment that he would be sitting in front of his house, looking at the stars like she did, thinking of her, like she thought of him, and missing her as badly, heart-wrenchingly like she missed him.

"Since when have you been stupid, Hermione?" she asked herself. "He said it – once a year, he goes and seeks company, and this year, he found me. Next year, he will find someone else. Next year, he will have forgotten me. I am one amongst many. Nothing special."

If only she could believe it. It would have made things easier for her had she truly believed she meant nothing to him. But the way he had looked at her, mainly when he thought she wasn't realising it. So... longingly. As if she was the one he always had dreamed of. As if he wanted to say something, but didn't dare to.

Something stupid like 'I love you'.

Bugger. That made it really hard for her to get on with her life.

Tired and emotionally upset, she got up and stretched her back. It had been a long journey, and tomorrow she would have to announce a few decisions. Her children already looked forward to going to the local schools. Molly, Arthur, and Ron would be a different matter.

********************

Molly and Arthur considered her a bad mother, but that was nothing new. Ron didn't really care what she did as long as she thought it was good for Hugo and Rose.

George Weasley, on the other hand, was speechless with joy when she told him. In the past years, after Fred's death, she had taken on the habit of visiting him in his shop in Diagon Alley about once a month. The children loved him, he spoiled them, and she had found it surprisingly easy to talk to him. He was the only one in the Weasley family who had a vague idea of her non-existing life with Ron. Actually, he had predicted it: "As soon as he is on the England's Quidditch team, he'll be gone, Hermione. He loves you, but he loves Quidditch more."

Back then, she hadn't believed it. Back then, freshly married, Ron had been depending on her, on her strength and her ability to make him get over Fred's death. It had looked good for them, even though she hadn't been able to concentrate on her studies as fully as she'd wanted to.

She didn't have to believe it anymore. She knew it was true. Her marriage was only an empty shell, and it must have shown clearly on her face because George, lounging on her couch in her overly large sitting room, barked out a dry laugh. "I've rarely seen you so unhappy, Hermione. I mean, I know you are unhappy, but usually you hide it behind a smile. What happened?"

"I happen to have woken up, George," she replied sadly. "I had time to think whilst on holiday. And I don't want to go on like this. Not working, not studying, not doing anything but raising my children is driving me mad." Restlessly, she got up and then, out of nowhere, she had an idea. A crazy, wild, utterly impossible idea. It took her breath away, and she stared at George for a moment, knowing that he didn't only sell joke items in his shop. For good customers, he organised everything they craved for, as long as it wasn't too illegal. Hard to get, though, was not only acceptable, but preferable for him to jump into action.

"I would like to offer you a glass of wine, George."

George grinned. "This time of day? But then, it's past lunch time, so fine by me. I hope it's not the dreadful stuff Ronnykins likes to drink." Stretching his legs, he looked most interested in anything his sister-in-law had to offer.

Hermione was already back from her room where she had hidden the bottle of Carlos's wine. She had found it in her luggage only two days ago when she had taken out all the clothes and toys. Covered by a stasis field, the bottle was in perfect condition. Now, she uncorked it and poured the golden, sparkling liquid into a crystal glass. Style where style is needed, she thought, and this wine needed the best glass she owned.

George, loving wine and knowing a good deal about it, took an expectant sip, kept it in his mouth for a moment, swallowed... and nearly dropped the glass. Disbelieving, he stared at the wine, then at Hermione. Another sip; the same reaction.

"Like it?" Hermione couldn't prevent the question from slipping out, although it was very obvious that George considered the wine drinkable.

"Impossible!"

"What is?"

"That you have this wine! I only had a glass once, a few years ago when I was invited to a customer's house. A very wealthy, awfully rich customer. He treated the bottle like his own child, he poured me a tiny sipglass, and he said he'd commit murder for another bottle. Where the hell did you get that one from?"

Hermione, all of a sudden, felt a warmth bubbling up in her, making her happy beyond reason. Carlos's wine, famous and treasured! "I only have that one bottle," she confessed, ignoring George's initial question. "However, I might be persuaded to give it to you – if you want it. Under one condition."

Carefully, George put the glass on the table, eyeing it with a predatory sparkle in his eyes. "Which condition?" he asked. "I'm willing to pay you nearly everything for the rest of that wine, open bottle or not. If I could give as much as half a glass of this wine to the customer I mentioned... Wow. I don't even dare to think of the benefit it would give me!"

"I don't want money," Hermione stated, a plan forming in her mind. "And maybe – just maybe – I can organise a few more bottles – sealed ones, naturally – every year. My condition, though, is a contract with you. I'm good at finding unusual things. I know you always have trouble finding the rarer books. And some of the potions you need require travelling. You don't like to travel. I do. I want a job."

George narrowed his eyes. "Mum would kill me," he mused. "Ron would kill me, too – he would need to be home more often, you are aware of that? And you would need to be gone for two or three weeks at a time, several times a year. Angelina hates that, which is the reason why I like to stay at home."

"Ron needs to look after Hugo and Rose more often anyway." Hermione's voice was hard when she said that. "They will forget how he looks if he continues to be absent much longer. And I don't care if Molly and Ron would kill you. I not only want a job, I need one!"

George got up and pulled her to her feet. They were nearly of the same height. "You can't have a job at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," he said. "But if you can organise as much as another bottle of this wine, I will make you my partner. Deal?"

"Deal!" Hermione breathed, then hugged him tightly and tried not to break his ribs whilst doing so.

*******************

This evening, when Hugo and Rose were tugged into their beds, Hermione sat down to write a letter.